Chapter 15: The Hanged Man
"Apparently the pigeon population in Ferelden took a nosedive. Weird, eh? What sort of sick individual preys on innocent birds like that?"
Dorian raised an eyebrow while staring dubiously at his stoneware mug of ale. "Someone who doesn't like pigeons, evidently," he said warily. He didn't care about pigeons. He didn't care about Ferelden. And he didn't think the bartender was funny.
"Time was, only a few years ago, that people were always coming from Ferelden. Now it seems they're always leaving for Ferelden," Corff, the bartender, said. He threw the damp and stained bar towel over one shoulder and leaned on the bar. "Which are you?"
Dorian stared at Corff without a hint of amusement on his face. "Have I honestly gone through so much shit in my life that I can pass for a southerner now?" he asked. He'd traveled through Antiva to get to Kirkwall, and managed to avoid rogue templars. Mostly. Felix, the sneaky bastard, had slipped a pouch of coin into the bag of supplies he'd given Dorian, so he'd been able to outfit himself more appropriately. Being mistaken for a southerner darkened Dorian's already bleak mood.
First, it was absolutely true: Kirkwall was a shithole. The place stank of trash and rot and stale ocean water, and Dorian all but had to walk with a kerchief over his face to block out the worst of it. Second, most of the places he'd consider staying in Hightown had either been burned or looted, or charged exorbitant rates for accommodations even Tevinter slaves would scoff at. Finally, there was no decent wine in the entire city, and he wasn't entirely sure the "ale" he was drinking was really ale at all.
Dorian sighed. "Why would a Tevinter need to go to Ferelden?" he asked, when Corff kept staring at him. "Yes," he added. "I am a Tevinter. As in from the Imperium."
Corff stared at him, slightly slack jawed. "Like, a Magister?"
Dorian shook his head, not really caring enough to explain that a mage from Tevinter did not automatically equate to being a Magister. "Never mind. I'm just passing through Kirkwall."
"Then where to?"
"Why does it even matter to you?" Dorian asked, irritated.
"You don't spend much time in taverns," Corff said with a smirk.
"I don't make a habit of it, no."
"A lot of people pass through here. Lowtown seems to be the only part of Kirkwall that's stayed standing, and the Hanged Man is the only tavern still pouring. When the ale flows, so does information." Corff surveyed Dorian, but Dorian had long ago learned to keep his face blank and unreadable. Finally the bartender sighed. "You need to know anything, see me. Not very often we have 'Vints come through here."
"When was the last time?" Dorian asked, genuinely curious. He couldn't picture anyone from the Imperium willingly coming to this dung heap.
"Bout three or four years ago. Just before the Chantry blew." He chuckled. "Probably for the best the poor sod got killed, else he'd have been blamed for the Chantry explosion even with that apostate singing and dancing that he'd done it."
Dorian rolled his eyes and left a few coins and his half-finished ale on the counter. He went to the room he'd let, but the dust and dirt everywhere just depressed him. What in the Void am I even doing here? he wondered. Have I really sunk so low?
He decided to give himself a walking tour of the infamous Kirkwall, but he left his staff behind. Kirkwall was still Kirkwall, after all; and he was still a mage. It made him nervous. But he'd been able to protect himself with his magic without a staff since he was young. Over the years he'd come to depend on it, enjoying the way it focused his mana and targeted spells more accurately.
It was still afternoon, but it felt dusky as the crowded and cramped buildings of Lowtown vied for space and drowned out the sunlight. It was nothing like the carefully constructed buildings of Minrathous or Qarinus. In fact the whole city felt like a garish mockery of the Imperium. It had once been one of the Imperium's most vital ports, the heart of Tevinter slave trade, and now? Nothing.
Dorian walked until he could go no further, as he was barred by the harbor. The water was dull gray and slick with scum and full of rotting seaweed and refuse. No wonder the Imperium had abandoned this port. It was truly hopeless. He stared out over the harbor to see the Twins, huge statues built on the rock piles that dotted the harbor between the Gallows and the open ocean. They covered their faces, ashamed and broken… not unlike the city itself.
Disgusting. Dorian sneered at the statues, at the Gallows, at the whole city. This was what the Imperium had to look forward to if things continued the way they were going. He turned and kept walking. The thought of Minrathous in crumbled ruins, or Vyrantium burning and turning the clouds black with smoke was painful. As dark as Tevinter could be, and as much as Dorian had qualms with its practices of slavery and blood magic, it was home. It wasn't beyond hope or redemption, not yet. Not so long as he drew breath.
Curiosity got the better of him, and Dorian walked the dirty streets to the Hightown region of the city. Maybe five years ago it was cleaner, brighter, and more distinguished; but now there was little difference between this part of the city and Lowtown, or the docks. The homeless sat in doorways of abandoned houses, watching with wide hollow eyes as he passed, leaving him torn. He had coin; but how much would he need to get to the next place he was going?
Where was the next place he was going?
What would he need to get there, and what would he need when he got there?
Dorian kept walking and eventually emerged in a courtyard build of the same pale stone as the rest of the upper part of the city. These stones, however, were blackened and charred, stained even after nearly four years. Without the Chantry to block it out, the sun bore down on him, suddenly dazzling after the shadows of the other buildings.
With all the chaos that had plagued the city over the last few years the explosion site had yet to be truly excavated and leveled. The rubble had been picked over by scavengers. The massive statue of Andraste had been scraped and hacked at by either robbers or pilgrims. Closer to the edge of the mess people had left candles lit; some were new and others had melted into puddles of appropriately blood red wax on the pavement.
Dorian closed his eyes. The Veil was thin here in Kirkwall in general; the city's history of blood magic, slavery and death had weakened the barrier between this world and the world of spirits. But here, on the site of the Chantry, if he looked close enough he could see right through to the Fade beyond. Spirits of death and darkness hovered on the edges of his vision and approached, but Dorian did not move. Stop this, they whispered in his mind. Death is natural; it need not be senseless. Do something. We help you; please help us.
He surveyed the ruin and rubble. The man who'd done this, Anders, was perhaps not so different from Dorian. They were both desperate mages in a world that didn't want them as they were. Except where Anders had turned to violent explosions to make people listen and had plunged Thedas into chaos, Dorian was constantly running. Felix was right. If they didn't want the Imperium to go the way of Kirkwall, it would take a Tevinter to change it.
Dorian knelt before the candles. Tiny flames sparked from his fingertips and he went down the line, relighting the dead wicks. "Those who had been slaves were now free," he murmured, a snatch of prayer from one of the Dissonant Verses of the Chant. It was not taught in the Imperium as anything other than a whimsical tale, a droll idea when someone needed a laugh. No one in their right mind would truly suggest that Tevinters believe in freeing the slaves. But Dorian whispered it with each candle he lit and as he did the resolve in his heart grew. He would not be a slave to the old ways of Tevinter, based in fear and arrogance; the southern mages would not be slaves to a Chantry bent on subduing them out of fear and pride.
"The slaves were now free," he said aloud, extinguishing the flames on his fingertips with a wave of his hand. He stood and stared at the rubble and beyond, through the Veil and into the Fade and nodded to the spirits watching. Then he headed back to the Hanged Man.
"Tell me why people are going to Ferelden," Dorian said, sliding back into his seat at the bar. His ale mug was still there and Corff was sitting behind the bar, reading a book. There were only a few other patrons in the tavern, mostly hanging out in shadowed corners talking. Dorian spied a couple of people actually sleeping on the long wooden benches against one wall, or else resting heads on the rough tables. A few glasses of piss-poor ale were cheap in comparison to letting a room, and a bench was probably preferable to sleeping on a Kirkwall street corner.
Corff closed his book, but kept his place with one finger. "You're back?" he said, glancing between Dorian's irritated face and the mug still on the bar. "Huh. I guess I got wrapped up in reading. The guy who wrote this? He used to live here," he said proudly. "Wish I'd thought to get a copy autographed before he left."
Dorian looked around the tavern and recalled the dirty streets and hapless people of the city. "I can't for the life of me imagine why he'd have left," he said sardonically.
"And I can't imagine for the life of me why you'd be curious about Ferelden. I thought your kind said fuck it all to that place a long time ago," Corff said.
Dorian shrugged. "We did. Perhaps I'm just on some extended sight-seeing holiday all over the backest of the backwater reaches of Thedas," he said. "So what is it? Ferelden refugees returning home at long last?" he asked. He dug into his purse and dropped a coin on the counter.
"Maybe for some," Corff said, eying the money. He set his book down and dragged his stool over closer to Dorian. Dorian waited but Corff didn't offer any other information, so he sighed and pulled out another coin. "Your kind has been offered sanctuary there by King Alistair," Corff said.
Dorian laughed; a sleeping patron groaned and stirred. "My kind? As if Tevinters needed…" Corff kept staring at him and Dorian realized that he meant mages. "Ah, yes, I see what you mean," Dorian said, absently stroking the end of his mustache. "And how would my kind make it to Ferelden, if one had an inclination to go?"
"Ship's the fastest way," Corff said, "though getting a ship might be difficult. Trade's slow these days, though there are occasional merchant vessels."
Dorian recalled his last time on a ship and wrinkled his nose. "I'd rather avoid the water if I could."
Corff shrugged. "Suit yourself. The land route takes you into Orlais, close to Val Royeaux, and we all know what a fucked up mess that place is," he said with a laugh. "Then you'd have to cross the Frostbacks." His eyes swept over Dorian. "You probably wouldn't last longer than half a day though, assuming you made it through Orlais."
Dorian's initial response was protest, but he thought of the snows and the harsh terrain and conceded to Corff with a nod. "Ship it is, I guess," he said trying to sound bright. "Though if that's to be the way, I'll need to find an open apothecary."
"Why?"
"I suffer terrible seasickness," Dorian said, tossing two more coins to Corff, and leaving his still-half-finished ale still on the bar. He wondered if he would ever return to Kirkwall, and if he did, if the ale would still be there.
The only apothecary Dorian could find was sorely lacking in potions to help with his impending seasickness, and while the woman had some ingredients for sale, he'd never learned much in the way of herbalism and potion making. Primal magic and Necromancy had taken all his attention, and he'd always taken it for granted that there would be potions available when he wanted or needed them.
Apparently "learn potion making" was going on his list of resolutions.
He booked passage on a merchant vessel returning to Ferelden, paying extra so the captain would stop asking questions about who he was, or what his motives were for going so far south. "Last I checked it wasn't a crime to travel to Ferelden," Dorian snapped, counting coin into the man's hand.
"It's dangerous traveling with a mage aboard," the man said with a shrug. "Especially an apostate. Though, I guess technically you're all apostates now, with the Circles going to shit."
Of all the things Dorian had been called, apostate felt the most offensive. "I'm no apostate," he snapped. "I'm an Altus mage from the Tevinter Imperium, where there's no such thing as an apostate."
The captain's eyes widened. "You're Tevinter?" he asked, and Dorian nodded. "In that case, it's even more dangerous to have you on board."
Dorian swore and just threw his coin pouch at the man as he boarded the ship.
Author's Note: Thanks muchly to new followers and faves! Thank you Nithu, Karebear, FenZev, mille libri, and Yvaine-Star, and to deagh for the PM :) I appreciate the feedback so very much. I'm getting ever closer to writing Theo and Dorian's story, and hope to have a chapter of that out soon! Thanks again for the support and feedback!